Page 59 of Filthy Rich

“Why do you get the smallest bedroom?”

“Because everyone else already lived together last year and I’m the newcomer,” I say. “I get the smallest bedroom and pay the least amount of rent.”

“So your friends are stiffing you?”

“Hang on,” I say, still struggling to come up to speed. “First of all, I’m not getting stiffed if I’m paying less rent for a smaller bedroom than everyone else. Second, they’re not my friends?—”

“What does that mean?” he says, looking thunderous now.

“It means I found my roommates through social media?—”

“Social media?”

“Yes, social media. That’s how it works if you need an apartment in Manhattan.”

“How do you know they’re not all sociopaths? Why can’t you live with college friends?”

“I would if they weren’t all scattering to the four winds now that we’ve graduated. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like it,” he says flatly. “I think you should find someplace nicer.”

“Nicer? I can barely afford this place. And I don’t see why— Oh, okay. I get it,” I say as a light bulb goes off over my head. “Wow. Okay. I should’ve known.”

“Known what?”

“That anything I can afford would not be up to your stringent billionaire standards,” I say, truly stung. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

He looks dismayed. “Tamsyn. That’s not what I meant.”

“Right.” I snatch my phone back, fuming now. “Maybe you’re not aware, but there’s a housing crisis right now. People can barely afford anything. I can barely afford this room that you don’t like. You know that renters have to pay first month’s rent, last month’s rent, a security deposit and pay a real estate broker, right? Do you realize that no one wants to rent to me because I’m just starting a new job and I don’t have a strong employment history? I barely convinced this landlord and these roommates to let me move in with them. I had to show them proof of the tiny bit of money I inherited from my father and the little bit that I scraped together in my savings. So I’m sorry you don’t like it.”

“Tamsyn—”

“I’m sorry it’s not good enough for you.”

He answers my tirade with deathly calm and zero outward emotion, which makes me feel even more manic in comparison. “It’s not about it being good enough for me, Tamsyn. It’s about it being good enough for you.”

This throws me for a loop. What is he even talking about?

“Of course it’s good enough for me,” I say. “It’s the very best I can afford through my own hard work. I was actually kind of proud of myself. I was excited about making a new home for myself. I need to know where I belong.”

“What?”

“My father died, so I don’t belong in the apartment where I grew up. I graduated, so I don’t belong with my old roommates. Two of whom are getting married, so they belong with their new husbands now. I’m only with Mrs. Hooper for the summer, so I definitely don’t belong living with her like a poor relation. So where do I belong? Why can’t I belong here?” I say, waving the phone at him.

He softens. Not all the way into a smile, but it’s a decent start. “I’m an asshole. You should be proud of yourself. I think you’re fucking amazing.”

My hackles are still up, and I feel dangerously overexposed after that dramatic monologue, so I eye him with open suspicion. “You do?”

“You know I do.”

“You made me feel bad, Lucien.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He looks like he means it, so I stand down.

“You think I’m amazing?” I say, leaning across our little table and tipping my chin up into kissing range. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

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